


Sound The Bugle

by kitt_yrose



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: 3x09 fix it, Angst, Anyways..., But Duro always makes me cry, CRIXUS LIVES, Damnit Duro, F/M, Fix-it fic, Hurt/Comfort, I cried at the end, I mean, M/M, This was supposed to be a Crixus Lives fic... But then I got Duro Feels, idk what to tell you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 20:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14089173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitt_yrose/pseuds/kitt_yrose
Summary: Crixus and Naevia manage to escape Crassus’ clutches and return to the rebels.And later, so does Agron.





	Sound The Bugle

“There is talk in the camp of people returning to us!” Nasir gasps, barging into Spartacus’ tent.

“…Nasir,” Spartacus is hesitant, and Nasir soon realises why. He looks around the tent, eyes going from Spartacus – to Gannicus – to Naevia – to Crixus. Then back to Spartacus.

“Where is Agron?” He asks, for surely Agron would be among those who returned. Agron would not leave him alone in this world, not if he had the choice.

Naevia offers a smile and Nasir can see the pity in it. He hates it. He wants to rage, to throw punches as he knows Agron would, but that is not his way. Instead he tempers it, as he had mastered long ago with all emotions, pushing everything down as his body calms.

It is Crixus who delivers the news.

“We were… overwhelmed,” he says, his voice gentler than anytime Nasir has ever heard it. His face sours. “Crassus’ army had us defeated, yet there was still a small opening for a few to slip through to return. We could not find Agron in time to warn him – apologies Nasir, I-”

“You left him,” Nasir says.

Naevia shakes her head. Steps forward. “We saved who we could,” she tries, hand hovering before Nasir as though she is unsure about comforting him. He does not desire her comfort, and pulls away before she can lay hand on him.

Something else is said, but Nasir is unsure of what or by who. Ears ringing, nose burning, he turns from them and stumbles from the tent.

He finds himself praying to the Gods, hoping for Agron to have fallen upon field of battle as his lover would have wished. If Crassus’ army had won, those who yet breathed would soon be nailed to cross – it was not a thought Nasir would entertain. No, better to believe Agron already dead.

That thought, however, knocks his breath from lungs, leaves him hunched over and gasping in the middle of camp. Crixus is quick to find him and usher him to the privacy of his own tent. The one he shares with Agron.

Shared.

Agron’s blue cloak is still spread across the pallet from where Nasir had laid in it the night before.

“When I believed my heart to be dead, you returned her to me,” Crixus starts, standing uncomfortably in the doorway, eyes to the floor as he wrestles for the right words. “Would that I could do the same… yet all I can offer is my strength – and Naevia’s, for as long as you require. Allow us to shoulder burden, lest you drown in it.”

“If that is all you can offer,” Nasir sneers. “It is the least you could do.” It is easy to place blame, yet Nasir knows better. Crixus would not have convinced Agron to go anymore than Nasir could convince him to stay.

Crixus only nods. Takes his leave. Nasir curls upon pallet, yet it is more than an hour before he begins to weep. After that first sob, the rest fall quickly, rolling together until he is no longer sure of where one ends and the next starts. He gasps, pulls the cloak to his nose. It smells more like him now than Agron, and Nasir realises with overwhelming clarity that he is gone.

_Agron is gone._

 

  
“Nasir, take pause!” He does, arm pulled back and ready to strike wooden pummel across the face of the rebel he was sparring with. A part of him is aware he was being too harsh, that he should have offered instruction between blows. Another part – the part that burned and festered – quietened for but a moment at the sight of blood. Just as quickly, the anger flares again; how do they plan to escape Rome’s clutches if they cannot even keep guard raised long enough to miss Nasir’s swings?

“Take meal and reflect upon lesson,” he manages, body growing tired as the rebel rushes off.

“You do not eat,” Naevia observes, a bowl in hand, offered to Nasir.

His throat closes at the thought. “I am of no desire,” he replies, frowning at his loosened grip upon wooden sword. He hasn’t the strength to tighten it.

“Is that your desire?” She asks, noting his fatigue. “To waste away until you are of no use? You think Agron would want this for you – or would he wish you to freedom beyond Rome?”

A sword to fucking heart would be a blow less felt.

_I wish only that you live_.

Nasir laughs, a harsh bark that pains his throat. “Freedom was choice to fall at hearts side upon field of battle,” he says. “I was refused my freedom – _Agron_ refused me that. I will see others to their freedom, as was Agron’s desire, yet there is nothing for me beyond those mountains.”

Nasir pulls his arm from Naevia’s gentle grip. She only tries again, holding tight this time. They have both changed much from what they once were, bodies and minds hardening as was necessary for survival, and he hasn’t the strength to fight her.

“And who will see to freedom those who carry you when body gives out from hunger?” She hisses, holding the bowl between them. “Regain strength, then do whatever the hell you wish.”

Nasir takes the bowl, ignoring how Naevia’s face softens into a sad smile as he forces a few bites.

 

  
They had taken Roman prisoners. Crassus was meant to be amongst them, his head a prize desired by all, yet it was his son and guards they had found.

“His name is Tiberius,” Spartacus says. Nasirs lips twist at the irony, gazing down at where the Romans are chained in the mouth of a cave. When he was known as Tiberius, Nasir had tested the rebel leaders – had made attempt on Spartacus, had dared Crixus to make attempt on _him_ … had cut to Agron’s heart, so sure of the reaction he would get – all to prove them the same commandeering fucks as the Romans. Now it was a Roman named Tiberius who took credit for falling Agron in battle; the little shit had bragged about it.

“An attack from behind,” Spartacus explains.

Nasir cannot help the laugh even as his nose burns and his eyes blur. “Clever strategy,” he manages, shaking his head at Spartacus’ questioning gaze. “His life is mine?”

“If you desire it,” Spartacus says.

He does.

Spartacus says they will build a pyre, hold one last games and slaughter the Romans as the Romans had taught them to slaughter each other, then mourn those lost to them. One last night to both celebrate and grieve before they continue on with their journey.

 

  
Nasir had watched everyone’s games from the sidelines, returning smiles and clasping arms with Lugo, Saxa, Crixus, And Naevia as they each reached for him after their fights. He hopes Agron would be pleased with all the tributes given for him.

But now it is Nasir’s turn, Tiberius being led forward by Saxa’s tight grasp upon hair. She roars at the crowd, shakes the Roman’s head, before pushing him towards Nasir and moving to stand beside Lugo.

“Would that you stood as your father’s entire army,” Nasir starts, adjusting grasp upon spear. “Your death by my hand worthy of Agron’s name!”

Tiberius is a decent fighter, yet frightened by the knowledge that he will die whether he wins or loses. Nasir holds no such issues, striking again and again, many small cuts to arms and legs, before finally falling the Roman to his knees. A fitting end for any Roman.

Nasir has fingers clenched in the Roman’s hair, spear blade pressed to throat and ready to tear flesh when Spartacus rushes forward, Naevia and Crixus right beside him, Gannicus halting at the edge of their makeshift arena.

“Crassus offers five hundred of our people returned for the life of his son,” Spartacus calls, addressing the crowd. He turns to Nasir. “Five hundred.”

Nasir shakes his head. “A Roman lie,” he pleads. Spartacus would not take this from him.

“I do not believe it to be so,” Spartacus replies, taking Nasir’s hand as Crixus takes over holding Tiberius, pressing something to his palm.

Agron’s leather cord.

The clasp is snapped as though it had been ripped from body. “This does not mean he lives,” Nasir says, heart racing, body overwhelmed. Crixus leans against his side, a pillar of strength just as he had swore, keeping Nasir to his feet.

“They have no reason to lie,” Spartacus says.

“We have his son!” Nasir hisses. What more reason was there?

Spartacus places hand upon his shoulder. “Choice is yours,” he says. “I only mean to show your options.”

Nasir glances down at the Roman – punches the grin off the shit’s face. Whether Agron stood among them or not, five hundred were too many lives for Nasir to justify killing Tiberius. “Save the five hundred,” he says, allowing Naevia to guide him through the crowds to somewhere quieter.

He clutches the cord to chest. He will not allow himself to hope, but nor will he cry again until he knows for certain.

 

  
Naevia stands by his side, shoulder to shoulder, as they watch their people return. They are all bruised and battered, bandages covering their bodies; yet they all manage a smile, a small cry, various greetings as one-by-one they spot those they hold to heart waiting for them.

“Nasir,” Naevia breathes, pushing against his shoulder gently until he sees them. Spartacus walking slowly, talking softly, Agron slumped against his side, Crixus keeping pace on his other side.

He’s sure Naevia moves forward as well, is certain he is pushing people aside in his haste, yet he sees none but Agron. He stops a mere breath before his lover, eyes roving over body, cataloguing injuries – and there are many. He lifts a hand, gently grasping Agron’s cheek.

“The Gods return you to my arms,” he says, voice surprisingly steady as his fingers touch flesh. This is no dream, Agron stands before him, body and soul.

His lover manages to open bruised and swollen eyes. “I was a fool to ever leave them,” is his reply. Nasir wants to hold him, to pull him close and never release him, yet wounds prevent such movement.

Spartacus guides Agron’s hand to Nasir’s shoulder and Crixus gives him a nod before moving toward Naevia. Nasir would thank them at a later time, for now he focuses on lending Agron strength enough to reach their tent.

Agron is docile as a fucking lamb, allowing Nasir to remove clothes and bandages, to wash body and wounds without even flinching. Nasir wishes he would say something.

It is when he reaches Agron’s hands that his lover finally reacts, pulling them from grasp before Nasir can undo the bandages.

“They are fine,” he says, eyes closed and body swaying with fatigue.

“The bandages are dirty,” Nasir implores. “And the wounds yet bleed.” He can guess what he might find under the bandages, had overheard Crixus’ whisper to Naevia about pulling people from crosses. He is afraid, as he knows Agron is, to gaze upon such wounds, yet they will not heal if left as they are.

“…I cannot look upon the damage,” Agron admits after a tense moment.

“You needn’t,” Nasir assures, grasping trembling wrists, guiding them to his lap so he may treat the wounds. Agron hiccups a breath, nods, drops heavy head to chest.

 

  
Spartacus arrives at their tent every morning, a fresh pitcher of water, bandages and poultice always in his arms.

It is three days before Crixus and Naevia appear.

Nasir makes excuse about retrieving fresh water before leaving. It is an obvious lie, the pitcher from Spartacus still sitting unused on the small table, yet it gives Agron a chance to speak to Crixus and Naevia, for them to speak to him.

“It is soothing balm to have you both stand before me. The best I had hoped was that you had fell by each other’s side in battle, it is blessing that you yet draw breath,” Agron manages a tired smile, propped upon pallet, wounds aching but clean and – fucking finally – no longer bleeding.

“Had we known you yet lived, we never would have left,” Crixus says. “We’ve most often stood at odds, yet I consider you my brother, Agron.”

Naevia nods in agreement, manages a smile.

“As I consider you,” Agron replies.

 

  
The pyre is lit that evening, all who are able in attendance. They burn it in memory of all those who have given life to the cause, to see those who remain to true freedom beyond the grasp of Rome.

Agron insists on standing, although none would think less of him for being seated. If he is to give tribute, it will be honourable. Strong.

His bandages had been changed only hours ago, Nasir doting on him, making sure he was fed and wounds were cleaned before helping him pull on blue cloak. Then Nasir had returned his leather cord to him, cutting off the clasp and simply tying the leather around his neck.

Now, they stand side by side, Nasir lending strength as Agron’s wanes, happy to carry the burden for the rest of their days so long as he has Agron breathing beside him. To Agron’s left stand Crixus and Naevia, their arms around each other as they gaze upon the pyre.

One-by-one, people begin to call names. Shouting memories and tributes of their fallen brothers, sisters, lovers and friends.

- _for Rhaskos_ , someone shouts.

- _for Oenomaus_ , Gannicus says. _For Attius_.

Naevia nods, Crixus offers the names of his Gauls.

- _for Duro_ , Agron calls, remembering his brother’s carefree smile, that moment of joy they had shared over Duro’s kill, Duro’s eyes, wide and unapologetic as the shit had smiled at Agron, blood on his lips.

_This time, I save you, brother._

- _for Varro_ , Spartacus says. _And for all who would give life in pursuit of freedom._

A cheer raises up as the pyre burns, and Nasir wraps a tentative arm around Agron’s waist.

“For Duro,” he whispers, for only Agron to hear. Agron leans his forehead to his lover’s, breathes deeply, knows it was his brother’s sacrifice that allowed this, knows this was all his brother had ever wanted for him.

_For Duro_.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m totally SUPPOSED to be working on Other Things, but this grabbed me this morning and wouldn’t let me go... I hope you enjoyed?
> 
> So from here my personal headcanon is that with Crixus to protect her flank, Naevia and he manage to survive the final battle and walk off into the sunset with the other survivors.
> 
> The title is from the song “Sound The Bugle” by Bryan Adams, which I totally suggest you listen to if you’re prepared to cry a little - it relates very well, for me, to Agron post crucifixion so... yeah.
> 
> Don’t forget to leave a kudos or comment if you are so inclined.
> 
> (^__^)


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